


Out Of Sight, Out Of Mind

by thepetulantpen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blind!Geralt, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Sort Of, Temporary Hearing Loss, Whump, fun with witcher senses, mention of period-typical ableism, mild geraskier, vague descriptions of eye injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24920569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepetulantpen/pseuds/thepetulantpen
Summary: Geralt is blinded on a hunt, and has to learn to see in new ways.(First chapter is main story, followed by short snippets in this AU!)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 55
Kudos: 370





	1. to make a long story short

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve seen a few blind!Jaskier fics and I thought it’d be neat to do one for Geralt! I wanted to explore how Geralt’s heightened senses as a witcher would be affected/how they would help him. That being said, this doesn’t necessarily represent a real blind person, or their experiences. With the many fantasy elements at play, I feel the distinction is important.

Plenty of boys are blinded in the Trials. It’s the price paid for tampering with vision enhancements, and it almost always ends with more boys dead- succumbing to complications, or put out of their misery.

Geralt is not one of those unlucky few. No, Geralt lived through the Trials- lived through more trials than most- and came out the other side mostly whole. 

So, of course, a fucking Bloedzuiger is what does it. 

Afterwards, he barely remembers the battle. His clearest memory is of getting _acid in his eyes_ , followed closely by him blindly stabbing the damned thing to death and then stomping it into a pulp. In hindsight, it was probably already dead, but he hit it until it stopped making any sounds whatsoever, because he deserved a little overkill when it felt like his face was on fucking fire.

He doesn’t even feel panic in the moment of fading adrenaline. He’s made for survival and killing at the detriment of everything else- he feels nothing as the world fades away, filtering out everything save for the next steps, the next move. Just like a fight.

He finds Swallow by weight and smell, and drags himself towards the sound of a nearby river. Downing the potion and splashing water in his eyes does absolutely nothing, which is frustrating, but he’s not going to fix it by sitting around and cursing Destiny. It’s time to figure out how he’s going to make it to town and find someone competent.

He trips seven times, but finds Roach by her heartbeat. She’s a good horse, a smart horse, and with a bit of urging in the right direction, she follows the path towards the sound of people without issue. 

The healer he finds by smell alone, because he can’t be bothered to ask for directions in this state. It’s not a difficult trail- the potent herbs act like a beacon and Roach keeps them carefully on the road. 

The walk gives him time to acclimate somewhat, pushing through any remaining shock and pain to the calm clarity of a mission, same as any hunt. There’s a world of sound and smell around him, his senses just as strong as they’ve always been- possibly stronger when his attention is not drawn away by sight. It forms a map of sensations, coloring a world gone dark. 

A healer’s hut is in front of him. He can hear the wind- strong today, it was annoying until now- hitting the wooden walls, prompting little creaks of protest. The shape of it becomes clear in the places he hears resistance, the motion of the wind halting, and there is an outline where the wind whistles through the gap between the door and its wall. 

He leaves Roach to her own devices, trusting that she’ll behave, and finds the door, knocking loudly. Louder than necessary, but he thinks he can be excused on account of the spectacular evening he’s had.

The woman who answers- he assumes it’s a woman, based on the length of her hair, which he can hear brushing her shoulders, and the smell of flowery soap- only comes up to his shoulder, the subtle displacement of air giving him her approximate height in a blurry silhouette of awareness. 

“How can I help you, witcher?” She must not have been looking at his face because there’s a second of audible movement and she gasps. “Oh, dear. Come in.”

She takes his arm to guide him, which he probably doesn’t need, but he can’t be bothered to correct her. He’s had a long fucking day, and he’d rather not trip over a dining table, failing his newfound navigating abilities. 

The wet cloth against is skin is shockingly terrible, he feels each individual scratchy fiber. There’s more water on his face, in his eyes, and a smell of herbs that stings his nose. It hits him full force, and when he inhales, trying to identify them, he can practically taste them.

The woman’s heartbeat is loud, saying what her expression might’ve. He’d known that he could hear heartbeats, but had little cause to listen to them before, no reason to do anything but block them out on a daily basis. It takes him a minute to remember the rhythm of a human heart, gauge what’s fast, and decide what that may mean. 

She swallows and Geralt hears _that_ in horrifying detail now that he’s concentrating, now that his senses are scrambling to compensate. 

“I’m not sure there’s much I can do.” 

The careful step process in his mind reaches its end, leaving him without anything to hold onto for a moment, scrambling for calm in the realization that there’s nothing to be done. He pushes down panic with a sigh, willing his mind to clear.

There’s always another step, always something to do. He just needs somewhere to recover, like any other injury. Somewhere safer than the floor of a stable, ideally.

He’ll be making an early return to Kaer Morhen, then.

“Wait,” the healer puts a hand on Geralt’s shoulder as he stands, a low note of concern and fear making her voice shake, “take this. I’ll show you how to use it.”

A wooden cane is pressed into his hands and he has to fight everything in him that protests the idea. Taking a breath, he allows the woman to lead him through the motion- tap, tap. Left, right.

It’s not sustainable- too visible, too obvious. Nobody will hire a blind witcher, but he can keep it strapped to Roach for emergencies.

At least until he figures out how to _hear_ cracks in the ground. 

...

It’s pure luck that he happened to be close, planning on starting his winter early for lack of work. The trip up the mountain is a challenge, but it gives him a good idea of what his remaining senses can and can’t do. 

_Everything_ has a sound, and that sound echoes until it hits something. With practice- and he has plenty, tripping over rocks and nearly falling off cliffs- he learns how to map out his surroundings in an array of newly audible shapes. Rain and wind make it easier, constant sound that cuts off when it comes in contact with something. More obvious than echoes. 

He uses the cane occasionally up here, where there are no witnesses. It eases the mental burden of processing every single sound, but it’s not something he could rely on in battle- or around people, for that matter. There’s not much kindness in this world for witchers or cripples, never mind a crippled witcher. 

The echoey halls of Kaer Morhen present a unique challenge in wide open spaces, sound that seems to stretch out endlessly. He stops at the threshold; head tilted to try and make sense of the room in front of him. He’s been here so many times, but now that he has to, he’s struggling to remember its precise layout. 

“Geralt? What the fuck are you doing here?”

Telling Vesemir what happened is the part he’s dreaded most. He forgets how damn quiet the man is, and it irritates him now, with no face to read. The pause after his story is extensive, leaving him straining to hear any clues. He catches the brush of hair against Vesemir’s collar- turning his head, maybe?

Finally, a sigh and Vesemir steps up to put a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Surprised you didn’t kill yourself on the way up here. Could’ve just sent a message, you know.”

Geralt isn’t so sure he could’ve- his handwriting was bad when he could see, and he doubts he could’ve gotten hold of a bird in his state. 

“I happened to be in the area.”

Another pause, he thinks Vesemir is giving him a look, then Vesemir is moving. “Come on, let’s sit down. Do you need help finding anything?”

“I’ll manage.” He moves steadily after him, hands forward when he senses an obstacle. Muscle memory helps, a little, in the most familiar parts of the keep. 

Vesemir doesn’t seem impressed, watching him feel for a chair in his room. 

“Do you need a cane, or something?”

“Already got a stick. Left it on Roach.”

A new sound- is that Vesemir rolling his eyes? He did not need to know there was a sound for that, but there it is, the unmistakable movement of eyeballs. “Of course you did.”

They sit. Geralt gets a sense of the size of the room first, then uses smells to fill in a few blanks- the paper and ink denoting books on the shelf, soap residue from a bath, Vesemir’s general musk clinging to the bed. He grounds himself on Vesemir’s heartbeat, a steady rhythm. 

“You could stay here.” Vesemir leans against his desk, making the wood groan. “Help out around the keep.”

Geralt snorts at the idea of cleaning or doing chores in this empty, lonely place. There’s barely enough for one man to do, let alone two irritable witchers. He doesn’t know how Vesemir does it without going mad- and _he_ has books to read. 

There’s not much for him here, just an exasperated, and secretly worried, Vesemir. He could stay, and- not quite retire, but... make use of what life and skill he has left. 

It’s an offer that falls on deaf ears. Geralt can’t sit here and wallow, can’t sit here when he knows he could still be out there. 

“I just need the winter to adjust. Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

From the sound of his head shaking, Vesemir already knew he was going to say that. He thinks, if he spends enough time around the old witcher, he might find a smell for exasperation. 

“I’ll have to see you hunt, before I send you out there again.”

“Worried about me, old man?”

Vesemir doesn’t respond but his mouth moves- a frown? Definitely a frown. 

Beasts, it turns out, are the absolute least of his concern. 

The heartbeat, the _smell_ , they may as well be announcing their position at all times. He has a feeling hunting at night is going to get significantly easier- no more Cat for him. 

The Kikimore’s legs creak with every movement, its jaws click before every bite, and Geralt learns, in the span of a battle, to recognize the near-silent gurgling sound as a precursor to the beast spitting venom. He feels a strike coming before it lands, the air moving subtly in warning, and finds himself ducking hits that might’ve been out of his line of sight. It’s like having eyes at the back of his head, except- well, he doesn’t actually _see_.

Vesemir nods his approval when he successfully takes down the Kikimore that’s acted as a pest too close to the grounds of the fortress, and brings them home dinner on the same hunting trip in record time, tracking heartbeats to bypass natural camouflage altogether. Geralt hears the movement, but Vesemir grumbles a verbal affirmation a minute later. Adjusting to more audio-heavy communication- for politeness sake. 

“Next test is gutting it. Think you can find a liver blind?”

...

“Any monster trouble?”

The bartender scoffs and turns to Geralt- presumably glaring. “We’ve got a notice board for a reason. Why don’t you check there?”

“I can’t read.” It’s a simple enough lie- not even a lie, really. He can’t, not anymore. 

The man mutters something to the effect of witchers being no better than beasts, but directs him to the alderman, who’s desperate enough to explain. Someone is sent to show him the main site of attacks, guiding him unwittingly- though, he could have found it faster by smell.

From there, it’s the same as it’s always been. The only challenge in the hunting process is harvesting the useful alchemical bits afterward. He can thank Vesemir for forcing him to spend the last several winters drilling on butchering blind, so he knows, intimately, the difference in smell between a heart and a liver. Dodging toxic parts to reach the valuable ones is still a little tricky- he’s been burned by acidic insides more times than he can count- but practice makes perfect, and he’s getting there. 

Hefting proof of kill on one shoulder, he puts his other hand on Roach. To anyone else, it looks like he’s leading her, but he relies on her to take his general direction and follow the road. He can hear where the town is, but finding the distinction between grass and dirt path is another issue altogether. On his own, without constant concentration, he’d wander off in a more direct diagonal, cutting through rougher terrain and calling unneeded attention to himself.

Reaching town requires bracing himself for the barrage of sensory information that crowds bring. With so many people around, navigating is far harder, but he lets the assumption that witchers are rude cover any vision-related blunders- bumping into people, cutting people off, ignoring people shouting at him.

Getting humans to believe he can see is shockingly easy, more likely due to the stupidity of humanity than any skill of his own. Nobody wants to get any closer to a witcher than they have to, so it’s a simple thing to keep his head turned away, avert his eyes, and mind his own business. 

The scars have faded to faint burns around his eyes- or so Eskel told him- leaving nothing for chatty whores or curious townspeople to ask him about. Most physical indicators of his condition have been wiped away; the only remaining obstacles being his inability to make eye contact and occasional struggle to not trip over barstools. 

He’s been discovered a few times, all of them equally unpleasant, but ultimately unremarkable. He can handle mocking and rocks- especially now that he hears them whizzing through the air, before they nail him in the back of the head- but he counts his blessings that he’s never had an incident notable enough to add Blind to his Butcher epithet. 

His routine doesn’t change much, sticking to his usual strategy of staying out of sight, as far from people as he can manage. He gravitates towards the dark corners, feeling the slight absence of heat in the sunless parts of the tavern. Blindness never becomes a weakness- there’s nothing to exploit, if they never even realize something is different. Being a witcher makes him uniquely invisible.

Nobody bothers him and he makes sure they never will.

Unfortunately, he underestimates the pushiness of a certain bard. 

He doesn’t even realize the bard lingering nearby is looking at him, or talking to him, until he’s sliding into the bench in front of him. He sensed his presence, sure, but he thought he’d be looking at someone else, talking to any number of other people in the tavern.

The bread in his pants is stale, and smells like it. It squishes and crumbles as he moves, probably getting bits stuck in the folds of silk so numerous he hears every slight shift, every wrinkle forming. He thinks the sharper, almost clicking sounds, are sequins against each other- another ridiculous, new sound to add to his catalogue.

“You _must_ have some review for me.” His smile is wide enough that Geralt hears it without trying particularly hard. “Three words or less.”

For all he listens closely to his surroundings, he’s pretty sure he didn’t catch a single word of that song- much less enough for a review, were he inclined to give one. Once upon a time, he may have glared him away, but he fears his aim wouldn’t be good enough now, so he settles for tense silence.

Jaskier does not take no, or an implied no, for an answer.

...

Having Jaskier around is not nearly as annoying as he thought it’d be. At first, he was sure he’d have to dump him somewhere- the noise would be too distracting- but now, the sound has become something of a blessing. 

Like the wind or rain, it creates consistent feedback, bouncing off obstacles and forming a mental image of the area around him. It wraps around their campsite, chatter and music traveling into the forest behind them and dancing around tree trunks until the sound is out of even Geralt’s range. 

It makes nights like this, of Jaskier talking constantly and playing his lute intermittently, pleasant. As close to seeing as he ever gets, giving him a complete picture the world. 

Jaskier breaks his litany of nonsense with an abrupt, “Geralt?”

He actually waits for a response, which is a new and alarming development. Geralt hums and hopes that’s enough. 

“I was wondering- and I hope this isn’t too personal- what’s wrong with your eyes? They never really focus.”

Geralt hears Jaskier’s heart beat a little faster- nervous- and the more subtle sound of him biting his lip. As a rule, Geralt doesn’t disclose his condition to anyone who hasn’t figured it out, but Jaskier-

Jaskier could be sticking around. There’s no point keeping it. 

“I’m blind.”

A silence that he’s come to equate with facial expression- something too subtle to guess, he’s never cared to be precise enough for specifics- follows.

“Is that one of your weird jokes?”

“No, Jaskier. I’m really blind.”

More silence, a steadily fast heartbeat. It’s accompanied by the familiar, frustrating feeling of missing something, an irritation he’s trained to ignore, but has never quite mastered. Geralt sighs and turns fully to face Jaskier, meeting his eyes as well as he can.

“What are you doing?”

A creak of wood, Jaskier startling on the log and shifting too fast. “What do you mean?”

“You got quiet. Usually that means I’m missing something.” He tilts his head, considering. “You’re making a face, probably.”

Another moment of silence. He never thought he’d grow tired of these- let alone become annoyed by them. 

“Huh. I guess I just looked surprised, if my face matches my thoughts as well as I think it does.” Jaskier leans in, for a better look, maybe. If he squints enough, he might be able to see the scar. “How long have you been, uh...”

“A long time.” He’s not being difficult- despite what Jaskier, and the inhale of breath preceding a scoff, might think. He doesn’t exactly track the date. “A decade, maybe more.”

“How-“ Jaskier clears his throat and Geralt hears the movement of his sleeve as he waves. “How do you do all this?”

“Witcher senses are much better than an average man’s. I use my hearing, mostly.”

The sound of fabric rustling and stretching as Jaskier scoots forward on the log, sliding as close to Geralt as he can without getting up. “How good? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

“You’d ask anyway.” Geralt swings back the last of his drink and turns back to the fire. “Really good. I can hear heartbeats, movements. The way air and sound move around things makes... an outline, almost.”

Jaskier’s heart beats a little faster. Geralt isn’t sure what that means; he strains to hear, but he doesn’t think Jaskier is smiling or frowning. 

“That’s _amazing_.” A grin- lips sliding over teeth. “No wonder you’re such a good hunter.”

There’s a jab comparing him to a wolf in there somewhere, but Jaskier doesn’t make the connection so Geralt just hums and picks up his swords, content to spend the rest of the night sharpening and oiling. He’ll keep the fire going, enjoying its heat, if not its light. 

They lapse into a silence that feels more comfortable, less tense than it was the first time. Then again, it’s not really silence- Jaskier is humming almost silently under his breath. Quieter than usual. 

“You don’t have to be quiet, Jaskier.”

Surprise, in the quickened heartbeat and sudden inhale. Shifting, as he sits up straighter. 

“Sorry! I thought it might bother you.”

“I’ll be fine.” Sensing- not through any particular sound or smell, but through his increasing familiarity with Jaskier- Jaskier’s disbelief, he tacks on, “I would’ve stopped you before now, if it was.”

Jaskier nods, then narrates, “Sorry, I nodded.”

“I can tell. I can hear your collar scrunch.”

His mouth falls open and he adjusts his collar. Geralt dutifully does not smile, and keeps his smugness to himself.

“Right, of course.” Jaskier pauses, then looks up again. “Could I ask you a question you probably won’t like?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never asked permission before.”

“I was wondering, is there anything you can’t do? Anything I could help you with?”

He’s tempted to say no. He _should_ say no. Jaskier probably wouldn’t even argue- too unbalanced around this subject- but he doesn’t _want_ to. 

He wants to say, _Keep humming_. He wants to ask, _Guide me_. He wants to demand, _Stay by my side_. 

He doesn’t do any of those. Instead, he says, “Reading. I can’t read print on contracts. If you could-“

“Of course.” The buttons of his doublet clink together as Jaskier adjusts it, straightening it and puffing out his chest. “I’ll be your agent, of sorts. A very intelligent, shrewd negotiator, taking only the best monster hunting jobs. I’m brilliant at public relations, too.”

Geralt nods, and leaves it at that. 

...

“Make way! The mighty White Wolf is gracing your town with his presence, clear a path!”

The townspeople mutter amongst themselves, confused, but move right away at Jaskier’s tone, lingering curiously at the edge of the street through town. 

Geralt hates the attention, but he can’t deny that Jaskier’s little show is helpful. Particularly since this town is more crowded than most and Roach is struggling to guide him through without trampling anyone. 

Helpful. Unnecessary but- nice. Against his better judgement, he’s started to let Jaskier help more and more often. It’s dangerous, carrying the threat of developing dependency, but Jaskier never oversteps any boundaries and, sometimes, he’s just too tired to refuse. 

There’s been a distinct difference in the time he’s spent with the bard, bisecting his life into the uneven parts of before and after Jaskier. For one, his headaches have decreased, not having to strain to guide himself as often. People are nicer with a human- and a charismatic one, at that- around. They get to stay at better inns if Jaskier performs, and enjoy quality meals outside of rations or burned rabbit. 

He’s _happier_. There was a time when he thought happiness had been burned out of him, but he’s reminded of its fleeting presence in those special, few and far between moments that prove him wrong.

Well. _Previously_ few and far between. 

“The man at the bar,” Jaskier starts in a dramatic whisper, still loud to Geralt, “is wearing an absolutely ghastly outfit. Geralt, we’re talking multiple primary colors, ruffles, and feathers.”

It’s easy to identify the man based just on his smell, wearing enough perfume to kill. “I imagine it matches his taste in perfume.”

“Gods, yes. I can smell it from here- I don’t know how _you_ can stand it.”

It’s a test of his willpower, certainly, but then, on a few desperate occasions, he’s shoveled shit for coin. This, however, ranks right below those incidents, and right above the stench of a necrophage. 

Jaskier’s color commentary on the world fits right in with his usual chatter and fills in a few, albeit unnecessary, blanks on the decor, the attractiveness of barmaids, and other visual odds and ends. It transitions, at some point, into a story that’s so exaggerated he may as well have made it up and ends in musings about his newest song, which, inevitably, leads to him needling Geralt for details. 

Geralt just hums and tunes him out, focusing on the noise of the street outside. It’s a challenge to pick apart the individual moving pieces of a crowd but it’s enough of a distraction until Jaskier throws his hands up.

“You know, all of this,” Jaskier waves generally at Geralt’s eyes, “explains why you’re such a shit storyteller.”

He senses there’s more to this, can feel Jaskier winding up to something. It’s a quiet evening and a nice tavern, so he indulges. “Does it?”

“Well, I suppose much of the blame falls on me.” Rustling, and the clinking of several unidentifiable objects in Jaskier’s bag, as he fishes out his notebook. “I wasn’t asking the right questions.”

Geralt can’t tell what he’s writing, but he hears a few long drags of the pen and figures he might be drawing something. A box, maybe? A chart, a probably. A series of shorter scratches, for letters. 

Jaskier grins, wide enough that Geralt hears it without concentrating. “Right. Are you ready?”

“For?”

“Your role in the creative process. Now, what did the rotfiend _smell_ like?”

Geralt scrunches his nose and braces for a complicated answer. “I’ll need a few more drinks before I get into that.”

Wordlessly, Jaskier waves for another round and the questions begin. It seems like Jaskier is determined to pick apart every aspect of his sensory experience and, as they get deeper in drinks, Geralt is willing to play along. He’s never talked about it, at length, like this and it’s fascinating to hear the things Jaskier can’t detect, the parameters of human senses that were lost to him long before his vision was. 

He talks until the candles stop giving off heat and his words start to slow, having detailed every smell, sound, feel, and taste that he can articulate. Sleep comes easy, after he lets Jaskier describe the pattern of the quilt and climb in beside him, warm and tired. 

Jaskier’s heartbeat, though faster than his own, forms an easy rhythm to follow into unconsciousness, sinking into a darkness he no longer registers. 

(The next time they’re in a tavern, he listens carefully to Jaskier’s new song, lyrics filled with more sounds and smells than he’s used to hearing described. Where there was once brilliant colors and hideous monsters, there is now rich smells and vicious growls. 

He can’t help but smile, hiding it behind his tankard. 

How Jaskier worked _rotting flesh_ into a chorus is beyond him, but it earns a clap.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I basically gave Geralt Daredevil powers. What can I say- Netflix shows have literally taken over my life. 
> 
> This was a fun, short piece to write. Hope you enjoyed it, and thanks for reading!


	2. a bit under the weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, and further chapters, will be smaller snapshots of this AU. I don't have a long running plot planned- I consider the main "story" done in the first chapter- but I find this AU interesting, so I'll be collecting all my blind!Geralt related things here. Enjoy!

“You’re sick.”

Jaskier startles at Geralt’s voice, bed creaking beneath him. He’d been writing in his notebook- hard at work with another song, if Geralt had to guess- apparently thinking Geralt was asleep.

“What? No, I’m not.”

Geralt sits up and thumps Jaskier lightly- though, not lightly enough judging by his responding grunt- on the back. The vibration rattles in Jaskier’s chest and reveals exactly what he’s already smelled. 

“Yes, you are.”

Concentrating, Geralt can hear Jaskier’s mouth turn downward in a frown. It’s not very hard- he’s not sure whether the exaggeration is a product of Jaskier’s personality, or an attempt to make it easier for Geralt to “see”. More likely a healthy mix of both, coupled with Jaskier’s considerable need for attention. 

“And how can you tell that?” Jaskier sounds genuinely curious, but doesn’t wait for an answer, “Can you hear the mucus? Smell it? Feel the tiny bacteria in the air?”

“Something like that.” Geralt smiles, hearing Jaskier’s heartbeat pick up in a way he’s taken to interpreting as _indignant_. 

“I won’t stand for this _blatant_ invasion of my privacy. Keep your witcher-y senses to yourself, you-”

Geralt hums and pulls Jaskier towards him, against his chest, making him interrupt himself with a surprised yelp. He bats at Geralt’s hands weakly, laughing as they trace up his doublet, feeling for the pattern. 

“I’m not exactly reading your diary, Jaskier. I’d find out later, with or without your confession.”

“I’m not convinced you wouldn’t read my diary, if you could.” Jaskier shifts Geralt’s hand slightly, moving it to an embroidered flower. “It’s gold, by the way.”

Geralt nods, satisfied he’s solved the mystery of Jaskier’s fashion choices for the day, and gets up, using one hand to push Jaskier back down when he tries to follow. “You’ll stay here and rest.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“For now, maybe. We’ll see how you feel tonight.”

Jaskier groans and falls back against his pillow, the thump echoing through their small room. He grumbles under his breath about boredom, but he may as well have said it out loud- it’s all the same to Geralt. 

Convinced that Jaskier isn’t an immediate flight risk, Geralt turns to pack up his bag, running his hands over everything to double check. It’s well-organized, which he can thank Jaskier for. He wouldn’t have thought to rearrange it with a less visually dependent system- he hadn’t changed much, in recent years, figuring his senses would compensate. 

Jaskier, to put it lightly, had thought this was lunatic. 

_“Why not give yourself shortcuts? You’re taking an extra minute to do something when you could just help yourself out beforehand.”_

_“I don’t need-“_

_“It’s not about need, Geralt. Let me show you.”_

One of many instances of Jaskier improving Geralt’s life through sheer force of will. He’s adopted an insistence on convenience and efficiency that Geralt can’t- or won’t, to save himself the indignity- argue with. 

He’ll be able to return the favor by taking care of Jaskier today. With any luck, it’ll be a simple cold, cleared up with rest before it truly sets in. He’s going to run errands, pick up human medicine, and be back by midday to check on him. His hunt can wait until the afternoon, once he’s confident Jaskier will be alright.

“Think about it as a chance to rest your voice.” 

Jaskier flicks him off and Geralt doesn’t bother letting him know that he can sense that. 

…

Before he even enters the room, Geralt can tell Jaskier’s gotten worse. The scent of sickness is stronger, his breathing worse. He’ll need to check Jaskier’s temperature, and make sure he hasn’t taken a drastic turn for the worse.

It’s challenging, between the barrier of the door and the relative lack of sound in the room, but Geralt focuses on the draft as it bounces against things, outlining the scene and giving him an idea of what he’s walking into. Jaskier is curled up on the bed, writing quietly in his journal- slower than the fast, presumably messy, scratches Geralt is used to. 

Jaskier must hear him step up to the door because he tenses, writing coming to an abrupt stop. Geralt opens the door before he can worry and starts pulling out what he’s bought, kicking the door shut to keep his hands free. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier greets, voice more hoarse than it was this morning, “how’d it go?”

“I’ve got stuff for tea.” 

He has... something for tea. The store had been so packed with herbs it was difficult to distinguish between them, and he didn’t want to sniff every ingredient with the owner watching. He thinks he’s found the right things, more or less. 

Jaskier pulls back the covers and climbs out of bed, crouching beside Geralt and his bag to supervise. “Your tea is always nasty.”

“My tea is _healthy_.” He pushes Jaskier’s hand away, knowing he’s just going to complain about whatever he ends up putting in.

“For someone with a great nose, you really haven’t grasped human taste buds. Would it kill you to add some honey, once in a while?”

“Well,” Geralt tries not to smile, turning away to start mixing, “I was going to use a little of this fresh honey I bought, but I think I’ll have to save it for someone more grateful.”

“ _Geralt_ -“ Jaskier starts, but breaks off with a cough, ending his whine before it can reach the truly annoying, high-pitched range. It would be a blessing- if the coughing stopped. 

Geralt pats Jaskier on the back through the coughing fit, fumbling for his water-skin with his other hand. Jaskier finds it first, unscrewing the cap with shaking hands and almost choking from drinking too fast. 

When he’s done, Jaskier pauses to regain his breath and goes quiet- it takes a second for Geralt to concentrate enough to realize he’s smiling, trying to reassure Geralt. 

Geralt frowns and puts the tea aside to face Jaskier- for all the good that’ll do. “I’ll stay with you tonight.”

“No, no,” Jaskier coughs again, and clears his throat, forcing his voice to sound almost normal, “Your hunt is more important. It’s just a cold.”

“Jaskier-“

Jaskier puts his hands on Geralt’s shoulders and leans on, so their foreheads touch. “ _Geralt_. The people here need you more than me, right now.”

He takes Geralt’s hand and places it on his chest, under his shirt. The skin is warmer- slightly hotter than it should be- and the rhythm of his breathing isn’t great, but it’s steady. It’s a cold, nothing that Jaskier can’t handle, after these years of travel. 

“I’m still going to make you tea.”

Jaskier laughs, the sound broken up by his sore throat. “I suppose it wouldn’t be that easy to get out of, would it?”

Geralt doesn’t respond, just adds a more generous dollop of honey.

...

It’s a miracle that the hunt ends successfully at all- he’s distracted the whole time, thinking about Jaskier. He gets lucky with a few strikes, more reckless than wise, and ends it quickly, collecting his coin without counting it. 

The smell of sickness is obvious at the top of the stairs, from the opposite end of the hallway.

Jaskier is in bed, under the blankets, and shivering, despite the heat of his skin. It permeates the air around him; Geralt doesn’t even have to touch him to feel the temperature. He puts a hand to Jaskier’s forehead anyway- running a fever, but not a dangerous one, yet. Any higher and he’ll have to seek out a healer, but there’s no point dragging Jaskier out of bed for the same tea they can make here, where he’s relatively comfortable. 

His teacup sits empty at his bedside, and Geralt picks it up to fill it again, mixing stronger herbs, this time. Jaskier stirs and props himself up as Geralt works, blinking slowly, blearily. 

“Ger-“

He cuts off with a cough, a deep, harsh sound. It makes Geralt’s ears ring, and he almost doesn’t notice Jaskier waving, gesturing for something. 

“What is it?” He hates to make him talk, when his voice is clearly shot, but he can’t tell what he’s pointing at. 

“Candle.” Jaskier clears his throat, trying again, with more success, “Some light, please.”

He spends a second debating whether Igni is too dangerous for a small target, then another fumbling with a match. He’s pretty sure he’s lit it, based on the heat around the wick, but Jaskier makes a low hum, confirming. 

Once the candle is placed on the bedside table, next to a new cup of tea, Geralt sits at the edge of the bed, all his senses focused on Jaskier. He helps Jaskier sit up and drink, then goes still as Jaskier leans against him, under Geralt’s arm. 

“I’d read you a bedtime story, but,” Geralt waves, vaguely in the direction of Jaskier’s notebook, now abandoned, “well, that’s usually your job.”

“Next time, _I’ll_ slay the drowners, and you write the story,” Jaskier rasps and laughs, a breathy exhale. 

They fall into silence for a few minutes, none of Jaskier’s usual chatter to fill it. He’s still awake- Geralt can tell from the pattern of his breathing- probably too uncomfortable to fall asleep. In the meantime, he’s making a valiant effort to drain the teacup. No amount of honey disguises the bitter medicinal herbs, and Jaskier’s sore throat makes him wince with every swallow, so it’s slow going. 

“I’ll tell you a story, anyway,” Geralt offers, before he can second guess himself, “Of one my older hunts. Before I was blinded.”

It’s a strange memory to relive- the details are fuzzier than he thought they’d be. He’s struggling to recall the visual elements that Jaskier tends to prioritize when describing things, by habit. He does his best, and decides the color of the monster doesn’t actually make a difference. Jaskier has never been picky- always happy to know how things sounded, how they smelled, how they felt. 

_“Your world,” Jaskier told him, once, “is so vivid. I can’t even imagine it.”_

_“It’s missing a little something, too,” Geralt joked, only half-kidding._

_“No,” Jaskier insisted, “it’s all of mine and more. Sounds and smells and textures I’ll never experience, except through you. Thank you, for sharing it with me.”_

Jaskier hums contentedly now, starting to nod off halfway through the third story. His hands twitch, as if aching to take notes, but sleep finds him before he can fidget too much. 

Geralt sits by him all night, carefully monitoring his breathing, heartbeat and temperature. He’s listening carefully for any change for the worse, but the medicine in the tea takes hold and Jaskier only improves as he sleeps. 

(In the morning, Jaskier uses his newly healed voice to yell at Geralt for staying up all night, lecturing him again on taking care of himself. 

It’s worth it, just to hear his voice again.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have at least one more of these short chapters planned- it should be posted in the next few days. I might take requests, if y'all want to see anymore of this AU, but I'm going to be busy with school stuff again soon, so no promises. Leave a comment, or send me an ask on tumblr if you want!


	3. fallen on deaf ears

The piercing death cry is insult on top of already significant injury- Geralt doesn’t even notice what’s happened at first, too busy putting pressure on the heavily bleeding bite to his shoulder. 

When the ringing in his ears subsides, leaving him with _nothing,_ you could say he freaks out. He thinks he screams, but won’t admit it- technically, he can’t know for sure. He can’t hear _anything_. 

No, that’s not right. He can hear a little, muffled like he’s deep, deep underwater. Nothing useful- just the suggestion of background noise- but it’s something. His hearing isn’t completely gone, so it’s probably coming back. 

Still, he feels like he’s suddenly been stranded near a cliff, without any idea where it’s safe to step. He’s unbalanced and doesn’t want to stand from his crouch, low to the ground where he can’t trip over unseen and unheard tree roots. 

The air shifts to his right, something moving, and he lashes out on instinct. His fist moves through air, missing whatever it is, and a hand lands in his left shoulder. He almost attacks again, but he recognizes the smell- the unique combination of perfume and ink that’s distinctly Jaskier.

Jaskier pats his shoulder- the good one- and his other hand takes Geralt’s, squeezing reassuringly. They’re close enough that he can feel Jaskier stand, and Geralt gets up with him, not willing to lose his only frame of reference in a newly alien world. Jaskier guides Geralt’s hand to his elbow, leading him, like he does occasionally in particularly difficult terrain or crowded taverns. It’s not an easy process- without verbal cues, it’s hard for Geralt to know when he’s going to trip on something- but they make it back to Roach alive. 

Roach is another strong smell, grounding him. Putting a hand on her, Geralt can feel the vibrations as she moves, dancing anxiously in place. He finds his saddle bag by touch, as he always does, and digs out the correct potion bottle- labelled now, with engravings on their corks- to chug. It takes effect immediately, the tingling sensation of healing stronger and more unsettling than it normally is, now that his sense of touch is demanding nearly all of his attention.

Healing done, he stops where he is, waiting for Jaskier. He has to fight the stubborn instinct to figure this out on his own- reason tells him he can trust Jaskier, and that he can’t do this by himself. 

Jaskier takes Geralt’s hands and places his notebook in them, pausing briefly before moving Geralt’s fingers down the page, to the indent of his writing. The lines of the pen are pressed hard into the paper, forming letters that Geralt can trace. It takes a few tries, remembering the shape of letters he hasn’t seen in years, but he makes out, _Deaf?_

He refrains from saying something to the effect of, _No shit_ , and goes for, “Yeah”, instead. It’s strange to not hear his own voice, but the precise movement of his vocal cords feels obvious now- almost uncomfortable, as his senses shift to rely on what few details they can pick up. 

The air near his head moves again and he reaches out to find Jaskier’s hand. With his hand on Jaskier’s, Geralt can feel him snap his fingers, right next to Geralt’s ear. There’s a very soft sound, outweighed by the sensation of air shifting, carrying vibrations. It’s too difficult to parse relevant information from the slight movement but it’s interesting, nonetheless. 

“I can hear a bit. It’s getting better, just slowly.”

Jaskier pats him once on the shoulder, then pulls his arm, steering him away. His hand is guided to Roach, where he can hold onto the saddle. She starts moving and Geralt follows, not all that different normal routine- aside from the small fact that he has no idea what’s in front of him.

Actually, that may not be true. He takes a deep breath, through his nose, and starts a list of smells, mapping out what’s around him, if not their exact location. Easily identifiable are grass and animal droppings everywhere, more distant is the pleasant scent of flowers growing a few yards away and other, fouler smells associated with a thin stream, even farther out.

He reasons that he might be able to smell a beast if it gets close- though, what he’d do about it, he’s not sure. Under his hand, he can feel Roach’s heartbeat and breathing; should there be a threat, of the non-smelly variety, he’ll feel her get nervous before he notices anything amiss. 

Their campsite, luckily, is not far away. He could’ve found it himself, he thinks, by following the smell of lingering ash from their long dead fire, but having Jaskier and Roach by his side means he doesn’t walk into any trees. 

Roach comes to a stop and Jaskier takes his arm again, leading him to a bedroll. In a few moments, during which Geralt imagines Jaskier is fumbling with kindling, the fire is lit, its heat washing over him in waves that grow steadily stronger the longer he sits. 

At his back, untouched by the heat of the fire, the temperature is decreasing. He hadn’t thought about it until now, but heat has replaced light in his world, the absence of it being the telltale sign of night approaching, and the easiest way to know when darkness arrives in the wilderness. 

He flinches when something touches his back without warning, a warm blanket draped over his shoulders. Jaskier pats his shoulder again, apologetically. 

There’s a very low sound, barely a murmur. His ears ring again, like they’re trying to readjust to hearing. The noise is mostly continuous, but inconsistent, rising and falling subtly. 

Jaskier’s talking to himself, he realizes. It makes him smile, to have something so familiar- if not able to enjoy it fully. _Enjoy_ being used lightly, in this case. 

The notebook is pressed into his hands again. He skips over the first message and finds another, longer, _Getting better?_

“Sort of. I think it’ll take the night.”

Another pat- taking the place of nods, evidently. Jaskier’s presence disappears for a moment, the warmth of him gone. Geralt pulls the blanket tighter, recognizing the best fabric they carry. Soft fur on the inside, sleek silk on the reverse- it’s Jaskier’s favorite, but lately, he’s insisted on sharing with Geralt. 

A smell wafts over him as Jaskier continues... whatever it is he’s doing. It starts faint and Geralt tries to distract himself by identifying each new scent as quickly as possible. One herb at a time eventually adds up to the combination of smells that reads as tea. 

After a few minutes of anticipation- and more of those murmurs, he imagines they sound disgusted, but he almost certainly hasn’t recovered enough hearing to distinguish that- Jaskier brings the tea over, placing it in Geralt’s hands. It’s warm, and Jaskier’s hands release his to touch his face, then his shoulders, before resting on his arm. Jaskier’s presence brings stability, someone to lean on, to trust as his eyes and ears. 

“Thought you hated my tea?”

His own voice registers as a muted murmur- slightly louder than Jaskier’s. It’s going to be a long night, but he hangs onto the taste of tea, the softness of the blanket, and the scent of Jaskier, his stupid perfume and soaps. He’s not wanting for warmth, at the very least- between the fire, the blanket, and Jaskier.

He _swears_ he hears Jaskier’s laugh, and it follows him into his dreams, with hope for a better tomorrow. 

(Jaskier is there to greet him when he wakes, the sound of a high _Good morning!_ impossibly relieving. He never thought he’d be so happy to hear Jaskier play _Toss A Coin_ , but it brings shape to a world gone dark.

Like audible color, as Jaskier always says.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the last of my currently planned updates! I'll probably post more sporadically if I get the inspiration, or get around to any requests (life/school permitting).


	4. a blessing in disguise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next few chapters are based largely on the many prompts given by Pom_Rania! Thanks to everyone who commented- it's been lovely reading through them all. 
> 
> I happened to finish these prompts first, but I do have plans to tackle some other requests. If I didn't get to yours, it's not because I'm ignoring it, just that I have a very chaotic writing schedule (plus... college and other life stuff). Hope you enjoy reading, anyway!
> 
> First up is "guiding Jaskier through a lightless area".

“Melitele’s _tits_ it is dark in here.” Jaskier stumbles again, accompanied by the harsh sound of boot leather against rock. “I can’t see a thing.” 

“What a nightmare.”

“Fuck off, Geralt.”

Geralt grabs Jaskier’s arm before he can trip again and pulls him closer to his side, where he can more easily guide him. “It’s not far. I’ll show you the way.”

Humming happily, Jaskier hooks his arm more firmly in Geralt’s. “My hero.”

From most people- normal, non-bard people- it would’ve come out sarcastic, but Jaskier leans fully into Geralt, clinging to his arm like he expects to be assailed and subsequently rescued at any time. The monster is already dead, leaving no danger except damp rocks and invisible cracks, though common sense has never stopped Jaskier’s tendency for theatrics. 

Truthfully, Geralt isn’t sure what Jaskier sees- or, rather, doesn’t see. It’s been a long time since he’s had _human_ eyes; before he was blind, the mutations gave him decent night-vision. He measures the darkness with the cold on the back of his neck and Jaskier’s heartbeat, marking the decrease in light with increased nervousness. It’s times like these that he realizes how convenient it is to have Jaskier as a barrier between him and the world, understanding the environment through his reactions.

It also makes him aware of how familiar he’s become with Jaskier. It occurs to him that it may not be entirely normal to know Jaskier’s resting heartbeat better than his own and be able to pick up on subtle changes as easily as if they were told to him. 

He tries to concentrate on the ground, ignoring any unwanted revelations.

Jaskier is muttering to himself, as he is prone to, and the sound reverberates in the small space, outlining every jagged edge of rock. In close quarters, the noise is almost too much, but Geralt doesn’t complain, knowing it’s more for Jaskier’s sake than his, this time. 

They’ve slowed to a crawl on the return trip, Jaskier’s torch long since extinguished in the scuffle. Though it takes longer than anticipated, Geralt’s reasonably confident in leading Jaskier through the tunnel- the only challenge is Jaskier’s apprehension, which eases as they settle into a rhythm.

“This must seem pretty silly to you, hm?”

Geralt tilts his head in Jaskier’s direction- his usual indication that he’s listening, without needing to respond- before remembering Jaskier can’t see him. “It’s not silly.”

“Did you shake your head?” Jaskier snickers, just as aware of Geralt’s silent mannerisms as Geralt is of Jaskier’s loud mannerisms. “I guess not _silly_ , but a little funny, right? Blind leading the blind, so to speak.”

“With your perceptive skills, you may as well be blind,” with a silent nudge, Geralt guides Jaskier away from a deep crack in the rock, “Feel like I’m always leading you.”

Jaskier elbows him, muttering, “Prick,” though it’s undermined by how his words twist around a smile as he pulls in just a bit closer than necessary. 

Jaskier doesn’t try to start an argument- probably concentrating on not tripping, more so than Geralt- and conversation fades. Normally, this is where Geralt would let it end, taking his opportunity to enjoy the relative silence and not have to split his attention between conversation and navigation. 

Instead, he clears his throat, knowing he’s drawn Jaskier’s attention when his head turns, brushing Geralt’s sleeve. “I don’t mind guiding you.” 

Jaskier pauses for long enough to make Geralt worry, but his voice returns, hesitant, “Yeah? Even when I’m the idiot that got his torch snuffed in the first place?”

“Whenever you need it.”

Jaskier’s hold shifts so his hand is around Geralt’s, rather than just hanging on his arm. “I hope you know I’d return the favor. If you ever need it.”

The _if_ isn’t quite emphasized but it sounds deliberate, punctuated by a squeeze of Jaskier’s hand. It’s a reassurance Geralt doesn’t feel like he needs, but his chest warms, heedless of his independence. He doesn’t _need_ Jaskier, but if he wants him... he’s there. 

Jaskier takes over the rest of the conversation as they near the exit, voice stronger as the risk of falling on his face is reduced. He holds onto Geralt’s hand even once the light is strong enough for Geralt detect the slight change in temperature. 

“Maybe I’ll start carrying a staff, or something. It’ll be a weapon and a navigation tool- you’ll teach me how to use it, won’t you?”

Geralt inclines his head, absently acknowledging Jaskier as he makes his way towards where Roach is waiting. “You could learn pretty fast if I leave you blindfolded in the forest.”

“Roach wouldn’t let me get lost. Won’t you, girl?” Roach snorts in quiet protest as Jaskier cuts Geralt off and roots through their bags. Wedged between them is a worn-down walking stick, the first Geralt was given, and Jaskier pulls it free. “Not sure this is suitable as a weapon, on second thought.”

Jaskier swings it once, experimentally, through the air in front of him. As it moves, Geralt can hear the wind whistle through the cracks in the wood, long since succumbed to weather and the pressure of bags piled on top of it.

It’s barely serviceable for its original purpose by now- the tool itself too old and flimsy, and Geralt too out of practice using it. He can’t remember the last time he took it off Roach- maybe when Jaskier had been curious about it, quizzing him on how useful it is, and how often he uses it. Having new methods for navigation- and knowing that he couldn’t use it in public- has doomed the cane to disuse.

Jaskier twirls it in one hand, managing a decent spin. “Haven’t you ever thought of replacing this thing?”

“Don’t need to. Besides,” he tries not to smile, listening as Jaskier takes another clumsy swing and overbalances, “it’s best to start training you with something you can’t accidentally impale yourself with.”

Jaskier scoffs, lowering the stick to rest awkwardly at his side. It’s barely a weapon, but Jaskier still seems uncomfortable with it, shifting his weight back and forth.

“At least I’ll be able to rely on my tactical retreats.” He hands the staff over to Geralt, letting him re-secure it to Roach. As a general rule, only Geralt puts the saddlebags back in place- otherwise, he’s liable to lose track of something. “My stealth skills are unparalleled.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, though it’s ineffective while he’s facing Roach. “The sequins helping with that?”

“Oh hush, it’s not as if it makes a difference to you.”

Jaskier adjusts his doublet self-consciously- likely for fear that it’s accumulated dust from the cave. He doesn’t smell, so it probably didn’t stain at all, though Geralt’s sure he’ll still shell out coin for a laundress.

“Reliable sources tell me your color choices have gone out of fashion.”

“Who told you- oh, you’re joking, you bastard.”

Geralt doesn’t know what in his expression gives it away, but it’s oddly satisfying to hear Jaskier recognize it. Jaskier tends to rely heavily on expression- leaning in close when he’s having a conversation, always studying faces- whereas Geralt relies on tone, learning a wide variety from Jaskier alone. The indignant rise of Jaskier’s voice as he’s riled up and quick fall as he realizes he’s being led on make Geralt smile, before he can try to hide it. 

“That’s not a nice thing to say to the hero who led you through the dark, scary cave.”

Jaskier gives him a weak shove, in retaliation, but follows along as Geralt prompts Roach to lead them back to town. He walks a little ahead of Geralt and bats low-hanging branches out of the way- unnecessary, but Geralt can’t argue, given that it does cut down on the amount times he gets wacked in the face.

“Just you wait, next time we meet I’ll have incredible navigation skills _and_ be able to wield a staff better than a witcher wields his sword.” More branches snap and Jaskier’s boots land harshly in the dirt, having jumped up to grab a branch above his head that might’ve snagged Geralt’s hair. “I’ll be writing the songs about _myself_. Defeating monster with my mighty… stick.”

“I’d settle for you being able to find your way back to a tavern without getting lost.”

(The next time they meet each other, Jaskier is, in fact, lost on a dark road, turned around after a night of revelry. Geralt generously decides not to mention his failed resolution.

He does, however, start keeping an extra torch in his bag.)


	5. you can say that again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is "potential eye injury; there's no sight left to damage, but he's still gotten used to having them there, and he wouldn't want a perceived weakness to be obvious". 
> 
> Not sure this entirely fulfills the prompt, as it's a near miss. I wanted to write something a little lighter- and save graphic depictions for an author will a stronger stomach than me. That being said, there are very vague descriptions of eye injury in this chapter. Nothing more graphic than chapter 1. 
> 
> Also: No, I don’t know how actual acid works but _technically_ this is magical monster acid so I don’t need to. Checkmate, nerds.

“Oh fuck. Oh _fuck_.”

Geralt would’ve thought that he’s learned his lesson by now, regarding acid-spitting monsters, but apparently, being blinded once just wasn’t enough. This time, it’s not entirely his fault- Jaskier had strayed too close, as he always does, and Geralt had failed to account for it. 

It might’ve been fine if he hadn’t been distracted by the nauseating sounds of the Bloedzuiger, a sick squelching as its skin unsticks from the ground to stand upright. He doesn’t take jobs with these things anymore for a reason- but Jaskier had sounded so excited at the prospect and Geralt hadn’t wanted to disappoint him. The coin was good and he thought, after all these years, that he could handle it. 

And that, of course, is how they’ve ended up with Geralt on the ground and Jaskier ineffectively wiping the acid from his face with a rag while cursing more than he has in all their time together, combined. It’d be impressive, if he wasn’t in so much pain.

The pain isn’t as searing as the first time- meaning, hopefully, that there isn’t much damage, unless he’s built his pain tolerance beyond superhuman.

“Jaskier.”

“Shit, it’s alright, Geralt. I’ve got it, I’ve got it.”

“Jaskier, I-“

“I just need to-“

“ _Jaskier_. Breathe.”

He does- shakily, loudly, as if he’s the one with acid on his face. Geralt finds his hand and squeezes, grounding him.

“Go get my canteen and help me wash my face.”

Jaskier springs up and nearly yanks Geralt’s hand with him, reluctant to let go. There’s some fumble with the bags, Jaskier’s dexterity taking a harsh decline with his panic, but the sloshing of water signals his success. 

The water on his face is relieving and as the initial pain fades, it’s easier to tell that there’s no lasting injury. Most of the splash missed his face, and he closed his eyes sooner. The only thing he might have to worry about is a scar- he’ll need to ask Jaskier, when he’s calmed down. 

Jaskier is fidgeting, fretting, above him, his hands unsteady enough to hear as well as feel. Geralt reaches out and takes his hands again, holding them still. 

“I’ll visit a healer,” Geralt says, slowly, trying to sound reassuring- to the best of his limited ability, “but I’m alright. It’s a minor burn, and Swallow is already working on it.”

“Your eyes are ok? Well, not _ok_ , but... not worse?”

“I think so.” Geralt moves his eyes back and forth, testing with no results. It doesn’t hurt, though that may not mean anything. “It’s not as bad as last time.”

Jaskier inhales sharply and Geralt tenses, too disoriented to be sure what Jaskier is reacting to; he smells distress but it’s not sour enough to register as fear. 

“Was this the same-“

Jaskier cuts himself off and Geralt understands, realizing what he’s inadvertently admitted. He’s never told this story, never given Jaskier more than vague answers. It’s not something he’d ever want a song about and Jaskier has learned to not push the topic.

Jaskier is quiet for a minute, holding his breath before letting it out all at once. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not a fun story.”

“No, I mean,” Jaskier makes a noise in the back of his throat, something higher pitched than a sob but just as miserable, “why did you take this job? We could’ve left, like you said.”

Judging by tone of his voice, Jaskier already knows why they stayed behind- it’s the same reason they usually stay, the only reason Geralt ever does anything he doesn’t want to. 

Geralt pulls on Jaskier’s hand, tugging him down to sit beside him. He resists, at first, but Geralt is stronger and pulls Jaskier close enough to wrap an awkward arm around. It feels wrong, immediately- too much, too fast, out of character for himself- though he can’t bring himself to take his arm away.

“I wanted the job.”

Jaskier shakes his head, but doesn’t pull away. “You’re a bad liar, Geralt.”

“You wanted the job, so I wanted the job.” Geralt runs his hand down Jaskier’s arm, fingers catching on the precise embroidery decorating his sleeve. According to Jaskier’s description, this design is invisible to anyone but Geralt, the thread being the same color as the fabric. “I thought my second attempt might make a better song.”

“I was too distracted to get a good look.” Jaskier catches Geralt’s hand, pulling it to a stop. He sounds preoccupied, responding to Geralt without really processing. “Not enough details.”

“I could fill in the blanks.”

“No,” Jaskier answers, quickly, “I think I’ll skip this one. If you don’t mind.”

Geralt hums and Jaskier rubs the back of his hand in rhythmic circles. As the adrenaline drains and Jaskier’s heartbeat slows to a normal pace, Geralt finds it harder to focus, the remaining scent of the Bloedzuiger crowding his senses. It puts him on edge, mind registering it as a threat despite the obvious corpse sitting beside him. Jaskier’s hand helps, putting a stop to the shaking in his own hands that he hadn’t noticed until now. 

The forest is quiet, apart from the steady drip of blood puddling around the monster and Roach’s nervous snuffling, but he still hears _everything_ around him, like a big, noisy blanket. The sound is there but there’s nothing to do with it, no stumbling in darkness this time around, no grim disorientation. 

Jaskier is taken care of and Geralt is fine, which leaves- nothing but a faint ringing in his ears, and a burn around his eyes. He feels, vaguely, lost. Like he’s forgotten the next step, with no immediate danger in his path.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jaskier’s voice is purposefully quiet, easy on Geralt’s ears, “far away from acid-spitting monsters.”

Jaskier stands and Geralt follows without thinking, letting himself be led by the hand to Roach. It’s not often that Jaskier leads without being asked, but when he does, Geralt has found it’s easier not to argue. 

They make it all the way to the horse and halfway through Jaskier securing the saddlebags, when Jaskier starts his monologue, voice faster and quieter than usual, “We’ll stop at the healer first for a salve, to lessen the scarring. Then, I’m going to restock those bath oils you like, the only ones you’ll tolerate. And I’ll get tea, the nasty stuff _and_ honey-“

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts his list, taken aback by Jaskier’s renewed energy, “you don’t need to-“

Jaskier turns suddenly- Geralt has been informed, on previous occasions, that this comes with a glare. It doesn’t have any effect on him, but he shuts up anyway, to give Jaskier the illusion. 

Another short pause- Jaskier keeps looking at him, probably glaring, though it’s impossible to tell- then he starts again, as if he hadn’t stopped, “I’ve got a little extra saved, so we’ll find an inn with decent blankets. Something soft.”

It’s unnecessary. Geralt should deny it- he should have no problem denying it, it should be easy- but he doesn’t. He nods and lets Jaskier lead, because Jaskier is still tense, still scared for Geralt. Geralt is not fragile, Jaskier should know that by now, but that’s never stopped him from worrying. 

Where Geralt has forgotten the steps, Jaskier has found new ones. It’s only fair to let him have his turn. 

(Geralt is happy to discover, on later inspection, that in addition to keeping his eyes, his scarring isn’t major. They’ll have to spend a few days on their own- a vacation, Jaskier calls it- while Geralt recovers and works through the salve, but he’ll be back to normal soon enough.

Mostly, he’s just happy to hear Jaskier calm and cheerful as he gives the healer’s work a once over.)


	6. leave no stone unturned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, "visual disguises or camouflage not working against him".

“How the hell did you find me?”

Geralt doesn’t feel particularly inclined to share that the man’s perspiration alone was enough of a stench to draw him from the other side of town. It’s not even worth it to explain that any witcher worth his salt could’ve picked out his heartbeat. 

“Your hiding place is shit.” He grabs the alchemist by the front of his robes and shoves him against the wall. “There’s a trail of monster filth leading back here.”

He’d identified the infestation as unnatural almost as soon as he’d been made aware of it. These sorts of things aren’t uncommon- there will always be dickheads willing to poison a town for research- but it doesn’t stop every one of these idiots from acting like some mad scientist martyr when he kicks the shit out of them. 

This one, luckily, seems significantly more scared than he has a right to be. It’ll make him less likely to put up a fight- though, Geralt hopes he’s not _too_ scared, given that the smell of piss would pretty unpleasant, in this close proximity. 

“You’ll destroy them all.” Geralt punctuates his sentence with another harsh shove, pulling the alchemist forward then slamming him back into the wall. “Understand?”

The man squeaks and nods frantically. Then, his weight shifts in Geralt’s hand as he leans forward slightly, blinking. All at once, the fear smell takes a backseat to something new, the panic tempo of his heart slowing, but only a beat or two. 

“Your eyes-“ 

Geralt cuts him off with a punch, realizing his mistake. They’re far too close; it’d be easy to see, from this distance, that Geralt’s eyes don’t meet his, never really focusing. He hadn’t taken the time to think about what the alchemist might see of his face, besides an angry witcher- usually, that’s enough. 

Blood overpowers fear as Geralt’s punch to the alchemist’s jaw cuts his teeth against his cheek. No bones crack, though it’d be hard to hear past the man’s loud shout of pain. 

“You broke my fucking-“

“I didn’t.” Geralt growls, baring his teeth and giving the man a new feature to focus on. “We’re going to go clean up your mess.”

Geralt imagines they make quite the sight- a witcher dragging a man across town, from the abandoned barn to the site of the main nest. The creature in question is a mutated abomination of an archespore- distinct enough from its original that it’d taken Geralt a while to identify it, the strangely sweet smell of their blooms throwing him off. As far as he can tell, they’re being used to harvest magical components, at the price of corrupting the ground and killing the harvest. 

Which, of course, isn’t a problem for the alchemist, who gets his own shipment of food.

Geralt deposits the man at a fencepost, the minimum safe distance away, and steps up to the largest cluster, blasting them with Igni until they catch. Poisonous bastards, but not as dangerous as proper archespores- thank the gods. He’d already taken care of the worst of it before hunting down the alchemist; this is a warning, and an alternative to killing the man outright. 

Over the roaring fires, there’s the fainter sound of feet shuffling- the alchemist taking hesitant steps backward. It’s clear, based on the pace, that he thinks he’s being stealthy. 

“Where else have they been planted?”

He startles at Geralt’s voice, coming to a stop. “I- no, you’ve got them all.”

Geralt sighs, louder than he means to, but it’s been a long week and he isn’t even going to be paid for this- the town has nothing to pay him with, and it’s not worth demanding anything of the alchemist. The alchemist breathes in, like he’s considering taking back his lie. It’s too late- Geralt grabs him and shoves backward until he hits the side of the nearest building. Not his best work, but it does the job.

Geralt holds him in place by his neck. “You want to try that again?”

With a hand over his pulse, detecting a lie is too easy. It’s unnecessary to double check each location the alchemist stutters out but, for the sake of appearances (and certainly nothing unprofessional, like spite), Geralt pulls him by the shoulder to each one. Honestly, he doesn’t need the help- the seeds, fragile and egg-shaped, smell faintly rotten and he’s able to run them through with a sword, pushing past the thin surface layer of dirt- though saves him the headache of attempting to _subtly_ smell the ground all around town. 

It’s also not necessary to threaten the man with a sword when he swears this is the last one- Geralt knows it’s the last one, but the alchemist definitely deserves to be fucked with after this hassle.

Then again, the smell isn’t completely gone, stronger than Geralt expects any lingering scent to be, and the alchemist’s heart is racing, faster than it should. 

He spins the alchemist and shoves a hand in his cloak, finding the hidden seed right away. It smells terrible, and his medallion vibrates once it’s in his hand. Before the alchemist can finish protesting, Geralt crushes it in his fist and lets the debris fall onto his boots.

“Did you miss any others?”

This time, as he leans in, Geralt doesn’t bother trying to make eye contact. He’s sure the alchemist has figured something out by now- but he’ll let him draw his own conclusions. With Jaskier’s help, there are enough stories to counteract any rumors that could spread. 

It’s dangerous, in general, to be too comfortable allowing someone to know his secret, but it’s hard to care in the face of a small, sweaty man who’s going to piss himself if Geralt doesn’t leave soon. 

“No,” the man shakes his head, fervently, “I swear, I-“

“You’ll be gone by tomorrow morning. Don’t let me find you again.”

Geralt doesn’t wait around to hear his response.

(It’s a couple towns down the line that Geralt starts hearing bards sing of an alchemist who claimed to be bested by a blind witcher. The song is short and funny- mostly an exaggerated description of the man’s bumbling attempts at villainy.

He reminds himself to thank Jaskier for that one the next time they run into each other.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was short but very fun! I have one more chapter in this batch, though it might be delayed as it ran a little long. Thanks to everyone who's commented so far!!


	7. your guess is as good as mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, "coming across the difference between him, and a blind human".

Geralt is absolutely, hopelessly lost. 

Enhanced senses are convenient enough on a small scale- helping him get around obstacles and identify landmarks- but they have limits, and aren’t as helpful for navigating the empty miles between towns. For the most part, he can get by on memorization, a familiarity built up through decades of travel over the same roads, but maps themselves have become useless, as have road signs. It hasn’t been a problem, up until today.

His most recent contract sent him on a chase through the countryside that’s landed him in another settlement altogether; one that, as far as he can tell, he’s never visited before. He was determined to branch out this year- away from the same towns he knows by rote- and now he couldn’t even guess where he’s ended up. 

Occupying himself with a mix of loitering and pacing, he’s wandered for just over an hour in the vain hope that someone will spontaneously exposit the name of the town or, ideally, the direction to the next. If he doesn’t figure it out soon, he’ll be stuck in the middle of nowhere for the winter. 

Roach huffs at his side, getting sick of walking in circles. He’s going to need a hand and, hopefully, a pair of functioning eyes. 

Signs of life are fairly scarce, most of the residents keeping inside as the air grows cold. The nearest presence is to his right, on the rickety porch of a nearby house. After a pause to assess- heartbeat, breathing, smell- he’s reasonably confident it’s man. Old for a human, judging by the tell-tale creak of his bones as he rocks in his chair. He’s unarmed, aside from the cane held loosely in his hand, propped up against the chair so it makes knocking sound each time he moves.

The lack of a weapon, at the very least, is a good sign. He’s discovered that, unlike most things, bigotry doesn’t have its own smell- he’s in the dark there, same as anyone else.

Geralt clears his throat, taking his chances with the old man. “Can you point me in the direction of the next settlement?”

The old man just laughs, and doesn’t answer for a moment. When Geralt doesn’t move on, he leans forward in his chair. “I hope you’re not winding me up, son.”

_Son_ is an interesting one- he’s never been called that, even from the most grateful humans. 

He must take Geralt’s pause for bafflement, as he adds, “Doubt that I’m your first choice for a guide.” The cane he’s holding taps against the porch; it sounds odd, much lighter than a walking stick should be. 

_Oh_. 

“My mistake. Sorry to bother you.”

“It’s no problem. Just surprised you didn’t notice.” The chair scrapes loudly as he turns it to roughly face Geralt, the source of sound. “Say, why don’t you come inside and wait for my son to get back. He’ll give you your directions, after we have tea.”

“He won’t appreciate my company,” Geralt says, then catches himself- best not to be vague, in present company, “I’m a witcher.”

Geralt gets the odd impression that they’re both sizing each other up, heads tilted towards the other. He has no way to know what the old man discovers- human senses are not his specialty. Can he hear the creak of Geralt’s armor, assume that he’s well-armed? Do his potions have a strong enough scent to pick up from this distance? What other subtle assumptions he can make, things Geralt might not have picked up on?

“Don’t think I’ve ever known a witcher to get lost.”

Geralt tenses, immediately regretful he didn’t just lie. Of all the things he’s done, he’s drawn the line at lying to blind people and _that’s_ what’s going to get him in trouble. 

“Can’t read the signs,” he falls back on an old classic, voice monotone and unwavering, “makes it a bit difficult.”

“Really?” The man is smiling broadly now, amusement clear in his voice and words upturned at their ends, “Thought they’d teach you that in your witcher school. Had one of your lot a while back that was filling out a bestiary- lots of pages, it sounded like.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything- briefly, he seriously considers sneaking away, which is put to a stop when Roach shuffles impatiently at his side, breaking the illusion of stealth. 

The old man’s cane taps the porch when he pulls it upright, turning to hold the door open as he says, “Why don’t you come in for that tea?”

There’s nothing compelling Geralt to do so, no one even around to see him be rude, if that was a concern, but... well. He’s not just going to leave him hanging. 

Geralt sits awkwardly in a too-small chair as the man- Bren, as he introduced himself- makes tea. He listens carefully to the process, curious if it’ll be any different than the way he normally hears humans move. It’s the same, more or less, which leads him to believe the kitchen must be well-organized, to the extent that Jaskier insists their bags should be. That, or a human’s sense of smell is more powerful than he thought. 

“I reckon your world is a lot different than mine.” Returning with two cups, Bren gently nudges the back of Geralt hand with one of them, allowing him to take his first. “If you can fight monsters with just your ears.”

“Not just ears.”

That earns a laugh from Bren- a deep, echoey sound that makes its home in the man’s chest. “Guess the idea of navigating by smell is less elegant.” 

“Useful when you’re fighting monsters that smell like shit. Or worse.” Geralt leans back in his chair, grateful to know that he doesn’t have to keep up the illusion of eye contact. “Any kind of necrophage reeks of rot strong enough for even a human to track.”

“I’m not about to go wrestle any drowners, if that’s where you’re going with this.” Bren’s cup is still full, obviously more occupied with conversation than the thin excuse of tea. “And the ears? Must be stronger than mine, or there’d be a lot more blind people out there wielding swords.”

There’s more to it than a simple metric of how far or how much he can hear, but he doubts Bren is asking for Geralt to wax poetic about the cloud of feedback that makes up his day-to-day. To some degree, it’s all things he already knows, if more muffled than Geralt experiences it. Then again- sensations are one thing, but the knowledge to connect them is another. Some days, Geralt thinks he’s woefully lacking in the latter.

“I can hear your neighbors arguing about grain, if that gives you an idea. And,” he tilts his head, concentrating, “there’s a crack in the wall under the window. The wind whistles through it.”

Bren frowns- his heart doesn’t quite skip a beat, but it’s just fast enough to indicate surprise. “Damn. Must get difficult to… process everything. At the risk of offending, I think I’d stick with what I have now. I’d never sleep again if I could hear my neighbors all night.”

“I wouldn’t blame you.” Geralt shrugs, unmoved. There’s no changing their circumstances- best to pick up and move on. Lingering on what could’ve been gets old once you’ve lived as long as he has. “It’s not all bad. Enhanced senses have their perks.”

“Yeah? What’s the best part?”

In the relative peace and quiet, it’s easy to enjoy the ambient noise- sounds he never would have paid attention to before. Simple things, like the wind blowing through grass and moving the field in a quiet chorus as it rouses bugs and disturbs clusters of weeds. The shifting of Roach’s hair as she tosses it, voicing her annoyance so he can’t pretend to ignore it. Heartbeats, even, are a comforting rhythm. Quiet beauties- but none of them are his favorite.

Jaskier’s fingers against the strings of his lute, hearing the notes travel and echo. The sound of Jaskier’s boots against the wood floor as he dances, picked out from dozens of others in a crowd. Crinkles of fabric, adding to every wild gesture Jaskier scatters throughout his stories.

Geralt shakes his head, dismissing his thoughts to analyze another time- or never, preferably. “Nothing specific. Just… makes things easier.”

Bren nods in agreement and, cautiously, holds his cup out to Geralt. His reach is tentative, not due to being unsure of the direction, but unsure of Geralt’s response. Testing whether he’ll be able to sense it.

He meets the toast and Bren grins, happily proven right.

It’s surprisingly pleasant, sharing this moment. They might not share the _same world_ , as Bren put it, but it’s a unique opportunity to talk to someone who understands- really understands, not just imagines- at least part of it.

“A blind witcher,” Bren sits back, still smiling, “You get a lot of dumb questions? ‘Side from mine.”

“Usually, no one figures it out.”

“Either people are stupider than I thought, or you’re pulling my leg,” Bren’s fingers drum against the side of his cup, a contemplative gesture that’s easier to read than his expression, “You must be a pretty shit actor, if you can’t even fool a blind man.”

Privately, Geralt thinks a blind man is harder to convince than most of the fools he runs into- but he holds his tongue, knowing it won’t particularly help his case. “They don’t exactly teach us theatrics.”

“Get yourself a bard, then. Like the White Wolf has.” Bren hums, though it’s hard to tell whether his suggestion is meant to be ridiculous or serious. “That Jaskier fellow is nice, even if his songs are a bit of an ear-sore.”

Geralt tries not to smile- Jaskier has told him his voice sounds different when he smiles, lighter. It’s something he’s heard in other people, of course, but before Jaskier, he hadn’t thought it applied to himself. Jaskier would say that’s because he doesn’t smile enough. 

“Might have to invest. He been through here recently?”

Geralt is glad he only has to rely on his voice to maintain a poker face. If the old man could hear heartbeats, like him, this conversation would’ve been a lot more interesting. He may be more insightful than most, but unless they’ve met before, Bren wouldn’t be able to guess he’s got the White Wolf in his dining room. 

“Came through less than a week ago. Said he was looking for adventure.” He scoffs, though it comes out more fond than annoyed. “I’ll bring you down to the path he took. It’s funny, he asked me for directions, too.”

It was definitely Jaskier, in that case. “Did he?”

“Yeah, he told me that the blind are the only people who see the world clearly, without the distraction of sight. Or some other nonsense like that.”

Geralt snorts- he’ll have to tease Jaskier for that one, later. “Sounds like bullshit.”

“Hey,” Bren elbows him, with more muscle and better aim than he expects, “I’ll have you know my sense of direction is excellent. I may not be able to fight monsters, but I know every inch of this town.” 

Navigating a town is always a struggle, especially with the addition of crowds; too much stimuli, too little focus to ground himself. He’d never admit it, but he’s almost jealous of Bren’s skill. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

As soon as Geralt’s finished his tea, Bren stands, leading the way. He moves as confidently as Geralt would in a fight, cane moving in rhythm with his steps. The consistent tapping is helpful, identifying obstacles almost before Geralt can. Bren’s cane is longer and lighter than his own- Geralt thinks he might finally cave, this winter, and get a proper cane. It’d certainly make the mountain passes a little less treacherous.

He catches the sound of people stopping as they pass, momentarily concerned at the sight of a blind man leading a witcher. Bren doesn’t stop for any of them and Geralt keeps his head down, concentrating on keeping up. The town is small, but at the pace Bren sets, Geralt can’t pick up the layout. He only knows they’ve arrived when the sounds of the forest, easier to pick out, are close. 

“Thank you,” Geralt says when Bren stops, and pulls out a coin, “For your time.”

At the clink of the coin, Bren shakes his head. “No need. I’m happy to help.”

Geralt wants to argue, but he doubts it’ll get him anywhere. Instead, he swings onto Roach, prepared to let her lead for a time. He stops when he hears the shift of fabric as Bren gestures- waves, he realizes. 

“Safe travels, witcher.”

He _almost_ waves back.

(He makes a point to get lost again the next time he’s in the area. By then, Bren’s figured out who his guest was and Geralt’s being told off for “not even introducing yourself.”

In spite of that, the tea, and the company, is just as pleasant as it was the first time around.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the delay! Had a busy week of classes, which took priority. Not sure I did a great job showing "differences", per se, but this was a fun chapter! I do have some more drafts for this AU, so stay tuned for whenever I get those done.
> 
> Thanks, again, for all the comments! Checking my ao3 emails is a high point of my day, thanks to you all <3


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